


bring your love (i can bring my shame)

by devils_trap



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: (Eventual) Dark Au, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Miller doesn't die, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Military, Oral Sex, Religious Guilt, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 02:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16053254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: Jacob tells himself he’s given in because there’s less risk involved in a situation when you’re arguably the best player at the table. Some of the other guys are pretty decent, but they get sloppy with drink. Don’t have the focus and head for numbers Jacob does, his only distraction Miller.It’s certainly not because he wants Miller - wants his friendship, wants to be near him, wants him.That’s - that’s fucking ridiculous.





	bring your love (i can bring my shame)

**Author's Note:**

> jacob/miller is my JAM tbfh and it's...real sad that there's no fic out there besides the noncult au one i may, uh, be sniffing back around. ENTYWAY, so! jacob/miller is...so choice, guys. really. perfect however you slice it.
> 
> this is NOT a noncult au. this is a cult au in which miller survives, and jacob's path is slightly altered. this is largely based on the [concept art](https://only-we.tumblr.com/post/177103717694/this-this-concept-art-is-still-my-most-fucking) in which jacob is religiously fanatical like joseph.

There’s something about the way Peter Miller looks at him that drives Jacob fucking nuts. Makes him itch, like his skin is too tight and his muscles are struggling desperately to stretch it back out.

Usually he can ignore it, focus on the task at hand and keep their friendship from suffering under _whatever the fuck_ it is bubbling sharply in Jacob’s guts.

Miller’s a good guy, a year or so younger than Jacob. Bright, handsome, talented - he had more options available to him for his future than Jacob ever did. He’s here as a Legacy, a point of pride, of familial duty. Sweating and bleeding in the dirt beside the rest of the rabble to earn Father’s love, and eventually his inheritance. Well off but not obnoxious about it, and more often than not willing to indulge his friends without a word.

And that’s what they are, _friends._ Even when Jacob’s back was rigid and the scars on his face still bright and pink, livid and painful well throughout bootcamp, with his teeth nearly bared and his back against the wall. Viewing the Army as just another stepping stone between himself and his brothers, one that’ll hopefully give him a leg up in court for when he goes home and tries to find them and then, eventually, sue for custody.

Miller was there all the while, gently slipping beneath Jacob’s protective layers. A smile here, a hip check there, a pat on the back that sweeps across Jacob’s shoulder blades and lingers before dropping.

Endeavouring to learn who Jacob Seed was as a human being - not as some fucked up, scarred kid fresh out of juvie, not as just another buzzcut in camo standing in formation. He’s dealt with Jacob’s baggage at every turn - his flashpoint anger, face bright red and the vein in his temple throbbing as Miller diligently, quietly talks him off a ledge; his nightmares, of fire and liquor bottles and his shaking hands trying again and again to thread a needle for stitches, his back against the bathroom door while their Father rages against it - and expected nothing in return but his care and diligence returned in kind.

It was slow going at first, but Jacob thinks he’s got a handle on it.

Mostly. Usually. Sometimes it’s just so hard to _exist_ near Miller when the Angel on his shoulder is saying _Friend_ and the Devil on the other is saying something wildly, _sinfully_ different.

Peter Miller’s probably the best friend Jacob’s ever had, even with Jacob’s internal dilemma. Hell, maybe his _only_ true friend. Grade school hadn’t been the time for friends, not with his Father’s whiskey breath and heavy fists, not with Joseph’s split lower lip and the ring of bruises high on John’s bicep.

Juvie was even less of an opportune place to form bonds, the choices being as limited as they were - fire starters and shoplifters and kids who _just barely_ managed to escape being tried as adults for assault and battery.

Besides, no solid friendship starts in a shithole like juvenile detention. True crime novels, sure, but the lowkey kind of existence Jacob wants now? No.

But here in the collective? Jacob’s heard countless stories about unshakeable bonds forged in the fires of combat.

If he can just...get his fucking stupid brain to cooperate with him, to be _right_ , Jacob thinks maybe he and Miller could have a shot at that.

If.

Jacob’s gotten good about compartmentalizing the pains and oddities of his life, of trying to listen to the Angel on his shoulder instead of giving into the Devil telling him to hit back, to raize that fucking barn to the ground. It’s hard to ignore Him when Miller keeps shooting him these _looks_ the more their little group diminishes, squadmates unused to the contraband alcohol being passed around and needing to sleep it off before they earned themselves demerits in their drunken haze.

Or before they lost any more of their money to Jacob. But claiming fatigue is better for one’s pride than admitting that to Jacob’s face.

Each chair kicked back and hand of cards folded has the heat in that gaze ratcheting up until Jacob is shifting in his seat, sweat beading at his temples. Feels like he’s out in the fucking Iraqi sun instead of tucked away in a dark corner on Base, the air conditioner clunking noisily in his ears.

Every time Jacob looks up from his cards there’s Peter fucking Miller, with his full pink lips and non-regulation blonde hair and those honey whiskey eyes making Jacob think terrible, confusing, _sinful_ things.

When the room’s empty besides them, Miller casually reaches around the table and begins cleaning up the discarded hands of cards. Their game isn’t even over yet, Jacob and Miller left to duke it out for the pot, but Jacob doesn’t say anything as it’s brought to a close. Miller hums while he straightens, quiet and beneath his breath like he does even when disassembling his weapon, bobbing his head back and forth as a tune Jacob’s not familiar with beats around his skull.

“Y’wanna keep playing?” Miller asks after he’s set the collected deck of cards back in the center of the table. He then begins to scoop up the winnings, organizing the bills in ascending monetary order, all the while unfazed by the irony in his statement.

“Kinda hard to play when you’re putting everything away,” Jacob counters, watching the effortless way Miller’s long fingers sort the money in his hands.

It’s too much money haphazardly put in one spot. Probably not even all that much in the scheme of things, deployment pay being as dismal as it, even with the Hostile Fire bump, but Miller handles it with nonchalance. Comfort. A man used to treating this like chump change, and with Miller’s family background, the grand total _is_ probably laughable. Child’s play.

Poker has always been a little too rich for Jacob’s blood, growing up with nothing as he did. Even now as an adult with good standing and _prospects_ within the military, Jacob’s careful, frugal with his money.

He used to turn down game invitations all the time, citing having chores or needing to work out, but it really boiled down to how stupid and pointless he found gambling. Fucking reckless. The prospect of coming out with less than he went in with, the stupid _risk_ of it all never made any sense to him.

Gotta put something out in order to get something, sure, but Jacob would rather earn by the sweat of his brow, than risk everything and get lucky.

Used to, being the operative words. Jacob accepts more invitations to games now than he had before, even when his squadmates groan and call him a Shark, but he only begrudgingly accepted the first one because Miller needled him to death, trying to make sure Jacob _allowed_ himself to be included - and typically will only currently accept them if Miller’s playing, too.

Jacob tells himself he’s given in because there’s less risk involved in a situation when you’re arguably the best player at the table. Some of the other guys are pretty decent, but they get sloppy with drink. Don’t have the focus and head for numbers Jacob does, his only distraction Miller.

It’s certainly not because he _wants_ Miller - wants his friendship, wants to be near him, wants _him_.

That’s - that’s fucking ridiculous.

Even if he _does_ have long, pretty eyelashes and the softest looking lips Jacob’s ever seen on a man. He doesn’t think about how pink and plush they are, and even if he had the chance to press his own against them...he’s not gay.

He’s not gay, he and Miller are just friends, Jacob needs to get a fucking grip, and Miller’s...laughing at him?

Miller cuts the wad of money in his hands, quarter to three quarters. He hands Jacob the larger chunk before pocketing the remainder. Shoulders shaking gently all the while, lips turned up, chin tucked to his chest.

“S’just us, Jake. We can play this or...play something else.” There go those eyes again, gaze so hot Jacob’s almost surprised the money still sitting stupidly in his hands doesn’t catch fire.

Leading Jacob down a path he keeps trying to keep himself off, the foliage lining it pockmarked with burns, smoldering in places. He keeps stumbling onto it anyway, alone with Peter Miller and those too keen eyes and the smell of smoke.

“What’d you have in mind?” The words rasp out of his throat, like the fire in Miller’s eyes has jumped into Jacob’s chest and scorched him from the inside out. Burning again, burning always, Jacob’s lungs and foolishly roiling gut singing, sure to look like the warped skin on his face if he were to cut himself open and take a peek.

“To be honest I’m bored of playing for money,” Miller muses. The comment smarts a little, the trivial way Miller brushes it off as if it were inconsequential. As if Jacob, even at fifteen, couldn’t have used _boring_ money to spirit his brothers away and keep them together. Fixed his problems with _boring_ money, weigh his brothers down with armfuls of socks with silver dollars, make them too heavy to move so no one could rip them away from him. “We should up the stakes. Make it interesting!”

“How do you up the stakes without money, Mills? Y’wanna - fuck, you wanna play me for teeth or something?” Jacob asks.

Miller laughs at him again, bright and joyful. Practically shows Jacob all of his own teeth when he throws his head back and lets it roll on his own shoulder. When the giggle fit stops, Miller fixes his gaze back on Jacob, cheeks flush with more than just the low simmering heat and the alcohol.

“Figures you’d suggest something fucked up like that, Red. No, I mean we could - shit, we could play for dares? Do strip poker? I dunno, live a little, Seed! We’re drunk in an active combat zone, every second could be our fucking last. Stop being such a sour puss and literally swindle the shirt off my back.”

Dares. Strip poker. Clenching his jaw, finally lowering his eyes from Miller’s, Jacob slowly pockets the money he’s been handed and takes a breath. This isn’t - he’s not - not _gay_. There’s no reason to play strip poker without women present, and certainly no fucking reason for the warmth in his belly to be moving steadily lower.

Jacob doesn’t tell Miller to shut the fuck up, to steer the conversation back to steadier ground. He just takes another breath and shrugs his shoulders loose. Raises his gaze back up to find Miller still watching him, not even trying to be subtle about it.

“If I’m not taking your money from you, what do I get outta this? Bragging rights?” he asks.

The smile on Miller’s face somehow softens, but doesn’t lose any of its heat. “I’ll make it worth your while, promise, Jake.”

With a flick of his wrist, Jacob gestures towards the table between them. “Well, go on, then. Make it worth my while.”

Miller hums while he cuts the deck. The song he’s chosen this time is at least familiar, though Jacob can’t put his finger on its name through the haze of both alcohol and stubborn, stupid arousal. His fingers move deftly in time with his chosen song, until eventually there’s five cards before Jacob, five cards before Miller, and the deck sitting in the center of the table between them.

To the tune of a song Jacob _can’t fucking remember_ , he loses the first round.

Miller looks as startled as Jacob feels. He’s not a bad poker player, but he’s nowhere as good as Jacob. The win pinkens his cheeks further, has him wriggling into his seat to get comfortable for the long haul.

“Do I get to choose -”

“Nope! Remove the shirt, Seed!” Miller crows.

Jacob blinks dryly. “I’m still wearing my jacket, Mills.”

“Then put it back fucking on after you take off the jacket? Christ. S’not hard,” Miller huffs, but any bite in his words is soothed by the playful curve of his tongue as it presses against the point of his incisor. Coy. Warm wet pink and shock white.

Jacob refuses to look at this too closely, but even greater than his need for willful ignorance is his need to put up or shut up. Put his money, or lack thereof in this case, where his mouth is. He doesn’t need to stand to shuck his shirt, but if Miller wants a show, he’s gonna get one. His fatigue jacket was already unbuttoned, easy to slip off, but Jacob takes his time pulling one arm then the other out of the arm holes.

There’s nothing in their tiny little alcove to hear but their breathing and the clunking of the air conditioner, but Jacob swears he can hear something spark and catch fire. He’s familiar with the sound, has the scars to prove it.

If he were a smart man he’d throw his jacket over his arm and beat feet, away from Miller’s pink cheeks and pinker lips and, God, the way his lips blanch when his teeth are clamped tight into the meat of them, fuck.

Instead, Jacob slowly lowers his jacket to the tabletop and then goes for the bottom hem of his t-shirt.

The aircon doesn’t circulate well to back rooms like this, programmed more to cool the bunkhouses and common rooms. Jacob’s undershirt is damp and dark in places with sweat, sticking to his skin as he begins to peel it off.

He can feel his nipples pebbling as the shirt’s dragged over his head. It could be from the slight temperature difference his bare, clammy skin can now feel. Could be from the way his dog tags  bounce between his pecs, swinging pendulum like against them before settling.

Could be from the sharp inhale Miller gives, unmistakable even with the racket.

Jacob sits back down without putting his jacket back on. When Miller mentions it, voice slightly unsteady and breathy, Jacob shrugs him off, looking over Miller’s shoulder instead of at his face. “S’hot in here. And I don’t need it on to kick your ass. Consider it a freebie.”

The jab seems to rally Miller, shakes him from his stupor. He’s heavier handed than he was before when he snatches up the cards to reshuffle and deal. Doesn’t hum, but he still seems to vibrate with a note just out of Jacob’s reach.

One, two, three, four, five cards before Jacob, flipped out faster than Jacob’s eyes can follow. Miller slaps them down in front of Jacob, quickly repeats the process for himself, and rehomes the deck between them.

“Fucking freebie, I’ll show you,” Miller mumbles.

He doesn’t. A straight flush against a two pair, and if that's not fucking irony Jacob doesn't know what is.

“Gimme the shirt, Miller. That was a God awful hand,” Jacob chastises.

The words are barely out of his mouth, his arm partially extended in a _gimme_ motion, before the shirt’s thrown in his face. The scent of sweat, whiskey, and cigarette smoke thick in the fabric, yet still not strong enough to mute the musky scent of Miller's deodorant. Heady, so different from the sweet, perfumed scent of the nurses on Base so many of the others clamor after, dogging their footsteps like lovesick puppies.

Miller’s not wearing his jacket, left back in the bunks, so there’s nothing to slip back on or forfeit. He flops backward into his folding chair, unworried about how it protests beneath his weight. With a long, sweeping arm, Miller gestures to the cards and mumbles, “Shut the fuck up and shuffle the cards, Seed. S’your turn.”

It takes a moment for the words to process, Jacob far too occupied by the bead of sweat trickling down Miller's clavicle.

His skin's freckled and tanned, toned but sparsely furred. He's really only got the dark blonde happy trail leading down into his pants.

It’s not that this is the first time he’s seen Miller partially undressed. The Army will do its best to beat modesty out of you in bootcamp. He’s seen Miller topless exercising, watched those strong shoulders darken with sunburn as they played basketball back on the homefront.

Hell, he’s even seen Miller naked in the showers. Sudsy and wet, hair plastered to his head. Singing into the bar of soap in his hands, stupid grin on his face even as the others tell him to shut the fuck up. But this is different, somehow. There’s nothing and no one else here to blessedly draw Jacob’s attention away from the most distracting person he’s ever met.

Jacob watches that one lone droplet of sweat make a valiant attempt to reach Miller's happy trail, unable to tear his eyes away until it disappears in the dip of Miller's belly button.

With a shake of his head he hopes Miller doesn't see, Jacob snaps back to himself, the spell broken but Jacob still shaken. Resolutely he keeps his eyes above Miller's Adam’s Apple, which is frankly no safer unless he intends to play this out looking over Miller’s shoulder.

But Jacob's desperate at this point, trying to scramble back somewhere safe, somewhere - somewhere not this.

“Y’think what I’ll do will benefit you more?” Nonetheless, Jacob collects the cards. Doesn’t think anything of it as his knuckles brush the side of Miller’s hand. He takes his time shuffling them, showing off as he racks them between his skillful fingers. Grins as evenly as he can while Miller flicks him off and lights himself a cigarette.

After a long pull, eyeing the glowing orange cherry as he exhales, Miller leans forward and slips the filter between Jacob’s lips. Expression unreadable as he goes, though his eyes glint in the low light with something hungry and aggressive.

“Any day now, Seed. I’m fucking aging,” Miller chides. He lights another cigarette, fingers slipping uselessly around the match he attempts to rip from the pack.

The smoke curling upward burns Jacob’s eyes, has him squinting to avoid the bulk of winding, wispy gray. He takes another moment to shuffle the cards before he breaks them, and with little of the fanfare he’d just shown Jacob deals them each five cards. The remainder of the deck he sets towards the edge of the table, closer to both he and Miller.

“Gonna get your fucking pants next,” said around the filter of his cigarette. Jacob’s laughter makes him scowl, curling forward around his hand with a determined dip in his brow.

Indignant little shit, challenging a better player to a game like this. Flashing red in a bull’s line of sight and expecting to not get charged.

He loses the next hand, too.

Going straight for the pants like Miller’d threatened seems like it would cut the game too close to its quick. Jacob’s enjoying the strange, crackling intensity flaring between them, even as it terrifies him. And though he’d never admit it he’s a little afraid of what’ll happen when one of them is the victor.

He decides to drag it out, make Miller fork over insignificant items first: his belt, his boots, his dog tags. It keeps the game going, keeps it _safe_ , and allows Jacob to continue existing in this good-bad flux without the scale tipping too heavily in any one direction.

Deeming it logistically sound, Jacob clears his throat and says, “Belt, please.”

An angry hand smacks loudly against the shitty hand Miller’d presented. He sucks hard on his cigarette before discarding it in the ashtray, then rips his belt through its loops and slams it on the table between them with too much force. The table rattles in place, uneven to begin with. Some of the empty glasses left behind tremble against its surface, bouncing and spinning lightly before thankfully stilling.

The deck, however, clatters to the floor. The distinct sound of card stock warbling as it flutters through the air is nearly swallowed up by Miller’s irritated mumbling.

“God dammit,” Miller hisses, “fucking belt...fucking cards...fucking Seed.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Mills. S’just a game,” Jacob teases.

“ _S’just a game,_ ” Miller mocks. He folds to his knees to pick up what he’d knocked over. Sits on his boots and stretches beneath the table to retrieve the cards that had flown the furthest from the site of initial impact, his back a long, sensuous golden line.

He’s got twin dimples above his ass, partially obscured by Miller’s steadily slipping fatigues. Jacob closes his eyes for a moment, praying for strength, as the Devil on his shoulders whispers they’d perfectly house the tip of Jacob’s middle or index fingers if he were to grip Miller’s slim hips.

Miller’s upright when Jacob’s eyes open again, though the change is position doesn’t help much. He makes a pretty picture on his knees. His too long hair casts shadows on his cheeks at this angle, darkening the smattering of freckles Miller hates, says make him look juvenile. Jacob likes them, thinks they look _soft_. Especially now, his cheeks redder than Jacob’s ever seen them.

Soft and pink and _God_ , Jacob needs to go. Has to leave this warm, dark little room, with only Peter Miller’s dick sucking lips and the Devil for company. Flee back to his bunk before he does something truly fucking stupid.

No matter if this feels good, this can’t be right.

A hand on his thigh stops his frantic rising, the King of Hearts sticking to the side of its palm. Jacob clenches a fist around its wrist on instinct, his body forcing Miller’s hand flat against the top of his thigh while Jacob’s mind screams at him to push it away, to leave Miller with that panicked look on his face and cards strewn all over the floor.

Short the King of Hearts, God Almighty. It detaches from Miller’s hand when the air dries just enough of the moisture keeping it there, and floats slowly, damningly, to rest on Jacob’s crotch.

“Don’t go,” Miller pleads. He makes an aborted motion forward, his body lurching in place for just a moment before he rounds back on himself and stills. Afraid to move just yet when he’s not sure he’s placated Jacob, doesn’t want to startle him before he’s coaxed him pliant. “Don’t. Jacob, y’don’t - I - don’t go.”

“Mills - Miller, I -”

Miller overcomes whatever roadblock had stalled him the first time around, figuring it’s better to act now and possibly break this than let it just slip through his fingers. The rubber soles of his boots squeak softly against the floor as he shuffles forward, dragging cards along for the ride. He doesn’t stop until his bare chest is pressed to Jacob’s knee, so God damn warm even through the thick fabric of his pants.

There’s no conscious input involved, but Jacob’s fingers flex around Miller’s wrist and his legs part all the same.

“Let me?” Whispered largely into Miller’s own chest. He’s got his head ducked down, eyes turned towards Jacob’s own boots, like he’s not expecting a punch but a kick still is a definite possibility.

“Peter,” Jacob croaks.

The sound of his first name gets Miller’s attention. His eyes finally snap back to Jacob’s face, bright and huge. His pupils so constricted it takes a moment for Jacob to find them when he searches that desperate, earnest face.

“I’ll be good, I’ll - I’ll be so good, Jacob. Let me? Please?”

Jacob doesn’t need to ask him to clarify, doesn’t need to play dumb. The option’s removed from the equation entirely as Miller’s hand begins to move, dragging Jacob’s hand along slowly until it stills again, cupped around the King of Hearts and Jacob’s already hardening dick.

“I’m not - I’m not gay, Miller,” Jacob mumbles. He shifts his weight in his seat, trying to keep the pelvic movement to a minimum. Doesn’t want to send off any more bad signals. He can’t have Miller thinking he’s trying to fuck up into his hand, because he’s not.

He’s not.

“A mouth’s a mouth,” Miller tells him. And, God, does he have a pretty mouth. Miller licks his lips like he knows Jacob’s been staring, and, shit, he probably does. It’s not like the intensity of his gaze is something easily overlooked. His eyes are too blue, his focus too sharp, for people to not immediately catch on that he’s eyeing something hard. “Been a long time, huh? Just you and your fist in the showers...in the bunks...I can help, Jacob. Wanna help. I’m good at it.”

He’s peeling open the fly of Jacob’s fatigue bottoms as he speaks, his words heavier than usual like he’s trying to mask the sound of the teeth slipping apart.

Jacob doesn’t stop him from opening his fly. Doesn’t stop him from reaching a hand into the open mouth of his pants and wrapping long, warm fingers around the shaft of his hardening dick.

He should, but he doesn’t. Instead Jacob just squeezes Miller’s wrist once and lets go. He tucks his hands under the seat of the chair after he sets his forgotten cigarette beside Miller’s, and clutches the cool metal like he’ll be granted absolution if only he holds on and closes his eyes.

Miller wastes no time in getting the head of Jacob’s dick in his mouth. It’s almost too much, so wet and warm after weeks upon weeks of nothing but his hand for company. Receptive and alive, Miller’s tongue curling loosely around the tip, already making needy, hungry sounds as he begins to bob his head.

Jacob wonders if this is something Miller does for the others on a regular basis. If the nights they don’t spend hanging out in their downtime consist of Miller suggesting coy little games of strip poker with assholes like Lewis and Orville and Michaelson, who don’t even like Miller the way Jacob does. Pricks who’ll probably be dead before their deployment’s over, who aren’t worth the saliva and the jaw twinge it’d take to bring them off.

In his frustration, Jacob misses his hand acting of its own accord again. He comes back to himself when Miller gags, the opening of his throat fluttering around Jacob’s cockhead. Not quite panicky, not if Jacob stops pressing his head down, but a little alarmed.

If Jacob pushes his hips forward just a little more, if he pushes Miller’s head down despite the little unhappy sounds, he’ll be fully in Miller’s throat.

“S’okay,” Jacob tells him as hand smooths down the side of Miller’s hair. He drags his fingertips against Miller’s scalp, works at it lightly until Miller’s head is lulling into his palm.

A shiny trail of saliva and precome connect Miller’s lips and Jacob’s cock, both a pretty, livid shade of pink.

Miller nods as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He slips even closer to Jacob, cradled between Jacob’s splayed legs, and rips at the clap of his pants. He draws Jacob’s sac out from his pants and rolls it in one hand while the other loosely jerks Jacob’s shaft.

“It's okay,” Miller says, voice lower than usual, “just...just warn me next time. Y’wanna fuck my face, Jake? Gonna force me to take it?”

Jacob flinches. Does he want to fuck Miller’s face? Have him gagging for real, tears streaming down his cheeks as he regrets allowing Jacob to do something like this to him? Yes. No. God, he doesn’t know. His thought scattered all around like the cards beneath Miller’s shins, except Jacob’s cards all have Jokers on them.

He wants this to be good, like Miller promised. Something he can think back on with his hand down his pants and only be damned by the fact that Miller’s a man, not because Jacob added violence to something as intimate as sex.

“No, I - it’s okay. Good, Miller, just...just gimme good,” Jacob whispers. His hips lift and push forward into the smooth glide of Miller’s hand, but it’s not the same as that mouth, those lips dragging up his shaft. “Won’t hurt you.”

“You could,” Miller says back, barely audible above the air con, “I’d let you.”

There’s no chance to reply, not with Miller leaning forward again, eagerly resuming his ministrations.

Jacob forces himself to relax. In control of his movements this time, Jacob allows his hand to return to Miller’s hair, content to pet instead of push. He drags his fingers down the side of Miller’s face as Miller hums contentedly around the dick in his mouth. Their eyes meet when Jacob pets his cheek, feeling himself shift and glide, pushing against the walls of that wet hot mouth.

Again it’s almost too much, Miller’s cheeks hollowing when he pulls up until only Jacob’s cockhead is left in his mouth. He moans when Miller’s tongue swirls around the underside of the head, skirting along the sensitive bundle of nerves tucked beneath the crown.

All the while watching Jacob, watching him.

“S’good,” Jacob tells him. He cradles Miller’s face in his hand, brushing his thumb over the delicate rise of his cheekbone.

Miller whines quietly, simultaneously pushing his cheek into Jacob’s touch and bobbing his head lower, faster, taking more and more of Jacob into his mouth until Jacob can feel himself tucked into Miller’s throat.

The wet sounds Miller makes are louder than their breathing, than the clunky air conditioner that’s doing even less to cool them down now that their blood is boiling like this. Jacob’s breath leaves him in pants, unable to properly catch it as the warmth in his belly blooms and spreads until it’s even in his fucking _boots_ , making his toes curl, uncurl, curl inside them.

Miller crowds in closer. He doesn’t try for subtly as he moves, just shimmies and rearranges himself until he’s lightly seated on one of Jacob’s booted feet, Jacob’s leg solid between his legs. Even through both layers of fabric, Jacob can make out the warmth and heft of Miller’s own erection as he ruts up against Jacob.

“Gonna hump my leg like a dog, Mills? That right? How’re you gonna explain the stains on the those in laundry, huh?” His hisses between his teeth as Miller sucks particularly hard and pulls on his sac in retaliation. When the sensation’s no longer blindingly bright, Jacob laughs quietly and tries to match the rolling of his hips with that of Miller’s.

There’s not enough time to draw this out, to stave off orgasm so Jacob can better enjoy Miller’s talents. It’s too risky, fucking around out in the open like this. Even with their alcove being mostly tucked away and private, anyone could walk into the room and see them like this.

Get them both dishonorably discharged, Jacob’s prospects squandered and Miller’s Legacy crushed.

“Always thought you had real pretty fuckin’ mouth, Mills. Look at you, stuffed full. Even prettier with those lips all fucked out.” He doesn’t know where the words are coming from, unaware of the well from which his depravity’s drawing. With the few other partners he’s had, all quiet, nice women, nurses and friend’s of squadmates, Jacob’d been near silent, the act itself almost perfunctory. In and out, an itch scratched with polished nails and wet cunts that should’ve, _should’ve_ felt better than this.

Now it’s like he can’t stop it from bubbling out, the words leaving him like his body’s trying to expel _this thing_ simmering beneath his skin.

Maybe it’s just his own fucked up thoughts, unfiltered with his nerves going haywire, thundering towards orgasm. Peeling back Jacob’s neuroses and hang-ups until he’s just a writhing, needing Beast like all the other creatures in the Animal Kingdom, out to fulfil baser urges.

At any rate, Miller doesn’t seem to mind. He moans again, the vibrations of it making Jacob’s toes curl again. His hips humping up against Jacob’s leg growing more erratic already, like all it takes to get him off is a dick in his mouth and filthy praise in his ears.

“Gonna let me come in you?” he groans. His hand slips back again, from Miller’s cheek to his hair. It’s damper than it had been the last time Jacob touched it, its roots wet against his fingertips as he gently fists his hand around the hair at the base of Miller’s skull. He doesn’t push, doesn’t even direct, just keeps his hand there to anchor himself.

Even around the dick in his mouth, Miller’s _uh huh_ is unmistakable.

He comes a handful of minutes later, lightly tugging on the hair still tight in his fist as a warning. Jacob watches as Miller pulls back just enough to keep Jacob’s cockhead in his mouth, his hand coming up to work the rest of the shaft while he focuses on the tip.

Like this, Jacob gets to see his semen splash against Miller’s lips, his tongue. Pinned to his fucking chair by those knowing eyes, unable to look away as Miller milks him through orgasm with his fist, and then happily swallows the pool of come nearly overflowing in his mouth.

“Christ, Peter,” Jacob mumbles, cheeks heating. Stupid, being knocked off balance by something like that with the shit he'd just hissed at Miller, but there's no logic behind it, no way to explain why  _that_ of all things would have Jacob's fingers shifting nervously.

Miller’s already beginning to rise, a little slower than he went down. The thought that he’s leaving already has Jacob’s heart thudding painfully in his chest, but instead of walking away, Miller throws first one leg then the other over Jacob’s lap. Eases himself down, making the shitty metal folding chair beneath them truly regret ever existing.

“Miller -”

“Gonna let me get mine, Jake?” Huffed against his throat as Miller resumes his rutting, this time against Jacob’s abs. He can feel Miller’s fingers knocking against his stomach as he rips at his own button clasp, birthing goosebumps across Jacob’s oversensitive, sweaty skin.

The first brush of Miller’s dick against him knocks all of the wind out of Jacob, low and punched out and still so turned on and fucking confused. Jacob struggles to regulate his breathing as Miller works himself feverishly in Jacob’s lap. The undulating of his hips and the constant movement of his left arm has Miller wobbling a little precariously in his seat on Jacob’s thighs, and without thinking Jacob reaches out to brace his weight with both hands on Miller’s hips.

Turns out his middle finger fits in those back dimples perfectly.

“Was it good? Tell me it was good,” Miller whispers, gripping tightly at Jacob’s dog tags. He presses his sweaty forehead to Jacob’s collarbone so he can watch the show, both of their dog tags jingling as he moves, his fist nearly a blur as he works himself.

Jacob’s grip on Miller’s hips might bruise. Turn those pretty fucking dimples an even prettier black-purple.

“You were good, Mills. Perfect,” pressed into Miller’s hair.

“Would do it again. Whenever, Jake. God...God. Would - would let you fuck me. Just say the word, I’m yours.”

Definitely going to bruise. Jacob’s fingers ache he’s holding onto Miller’s hips so tightly.

“Do you want me, Jake? Say it. Tell me you want me.” It sounds like the words crack apart in Miller’s throat, jagged and raw. Jacob suspects Miller’s tongue is a little too loose with liquor and come, giving away all of his secrets.

Jacob could stand his ground. Tell Miller _a mouth is a mouth_ and put this back on track by taking the out he's been given. Make this just a slight detour on the way to salvation.

But he doesn’t. Just closes his eyes and says, “I want you. Lord help me, I want you.”

**Author's Note:**

> big fucking shout out to the server i practically live in, and to [boon](https://boonkin.tumblr.com) and [d](https://insanewardog.tumblr.com), for allowing me to vomit this idea everywhere, and always fucking delivering bad ass art to kickstart my dumbass into gear.
> 
> also, as always, big shout out to [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyamoeba) for always listening to my au ideas and giving me hers so the both of us can lose our shits together and froth at the mouth.
> 
> i love you all (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> also cubed while i'm here: the title is (of course) lyrics, namely the weeknd's "wicked games."
> 
> GUYS, BOON DREW THE CHAIR SCENE I'M...I'M CRYING. [LOOK AT THIS AND CRY WITH ME.](http://boonkin.tumblr.com/post/178395002094/young-jacob-and-miller-drawn-for-boneforts-fic)


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